


Forgotten Arm

by gracca_amorosa



Category: The Expanse (TV), The Expanse Series - James S. A. Corey
Genre: F/M, Porn with Feelings, Sex, The man is depressed and i want him to be happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:35:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29168175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracca_amorosa/pseuds/gracca_amorosa
Summary: “Hey doll,” comes from your left, a rough, low voice to match the rough exterior. “What brings you to this shithole all the time? The ambiance?”When you look over the man is looking at you sideways, but he looks away almost as soon as you meet his gaze. You stare at him a little longer, a man who’s hair and face were both going grey, whose lined face looked exhausted, and you feel sorry for him, mostly, but in the way someone feels sorry for an old dog. You have to admit, though, now that you’re looking at him closely for the first time, he pulls off the sad cop vibe pretty well.
Relationships: Joe Miller/OFC, Joe Miller/Original Female Character
Comments: 11
Kudos: 20





	Forgotten Arm

Joe wasn’t sure why he kept coming to this bar, other than it was the closest one to his hole. He had had an argument with almost everyone in the place, and the ones he hasn’t were just tired of seeing him doing the arguing. Sometimes it was OPA hacks noticing him sitting _peacefully_ in his corner and hassling him for being Star Helix, sometimes it was Star Helix guys hassling him for being washed up. More often than not nowadays he was the one starting shit just to feel something - anger, pain if it came to it, closeness to another human being that wasn’t his ex-wife that only talked to him in his imagination anymore. Otherwise, he didn’t feel much of anything, and that thought got too close to other, even less savory thoughts, about wasting air and water. God, he was sad.

\- - - - -

The bar is mixed Star Helix and OPA, and you’re not sure how it managed to keep the peace, other than the threat of mutually assured destruction. Mostly, though, the groups were still split: OPA along the wall, sitting at tiny tables bolted to the ground and tiny chairs likewise fastened. Star Helix sat at the bar, gathered in tight clumps and whispering lowly, not looking at the workers along the wall but not ignoring them, exactly, either. You only come here because it’s more quiet than your usual Ceres bar, full of lights and music or else loud conversations about one faction or another, whether that be a gang of cops or a gang of kids stealing water.

You head to the bar to get yourself a bulb of something - Ganymede Gin, probably - and this is when you notice the several free seats between the last clump of Star Helix cops and the man in the dark, otherwise empty corner of the bar. For a place where space was at a premium, the space he was given was concerning. You always see him in that corner, see him out doing whatever it is Star Helix calls ‘keeping the peace’, know that everyone else keeps their distance from him. You tried to, at first, but not much anymore. Nowadays you just pick a seat close but not-too-close, sit in silence, drink.

You slide into a seat closer to the man than the others, getting sideways glances from the cops to your right but not from the man to your left - he continues to stare at nothing, rubbing his rough hand over his unshaven face, making sandpaper noises. He’s rumpled, more than usual for a grizzled old cop even in this mixed-use bar, his beat-up old hat takes up the stool next to his own. You take your gin and look him over once before facing forward yourself, and falling into your own thoughts. You’re not friends with this man; you’ve never spoken to him and as far as you know he’s never looked at you, but part of you classifies him as an _acquaintance_ if nothing else. It’s practically companionable.

“Hey doll,” comes from your left, a rough, low voice to match the rough exterior. “What brings you to this shithole all the time? The ambiance?” 

When you look over the man is looking at you sideways, but he looks away almost as soon as you meet his gaze. You stare at him a little longer, a man who’s hair and face were both going grey, whose lined face looked exhausted, and you feel sorry for him, mostly, but in the way someone feels sorry for an old dog. You have to admit, though, now that you’re looking at him closely for the first time, he pulls off the sad cop vibe pretty well.

“Did you just call me doll?” you ask, and this makes him smile, revealing dimples and deep laugh lines, and you wonder again why he’s here all alone. “The first time in months you talk to me and you call me _doll._ Does anyone even use that word anymore?” You drink your gin in one gulp, click the empty bulb back onto the metal counter, ask for another. He glances over at you again and follows suit, and the bartender is slower about handing him another drink, but he does.

“Well _I_ just did,” he said, raising one hand in a shrug, Ceres accent thick. “Make of that what you will, I guess.” He put the bulb to his lips but only takes the smallest drink. “I can’t say I’m exactly up-to-date on my slang, kid.” He puts his cheek on his fist to prop himself up, and swings his head around like only a drunk person does, like an old dog, and finally looks at you for real. 

You look at each other in silence for a minute, and you see him looking you over as you take in his pursed, drunk lips, stiff-looking hair, shirt unbuttoned to reveal his thin Belter chest.

“You’re a cop, right? I see you in here all the time. Out there, sometimes,” you say waving towards the door.

“You’re sitting with a bunch of cops in a _mixed use_ bar, kid, what do _you_ think I am?” He drinks his bulb dry this time, and when he gestures for another the bartender slides him water instead, and he takes it up with a scowl and chugs, thumping it down and exchanging it for his booze. The bartender looks at you for a moment but doesn’t say anything before going to help someone else.

The man holds off drinking this one too, but stops looking at you. You keep looking at him, though, words waiting at the back of your throat but you can’t seem to say them yet. He’s folding in on himself a little now, an air of barely concealed self loathing, dangerously drunk - a feeling you know, though maybe not this acutely. You decide you can talk to him more, and just have to hope you don’t make it worse. You think again on his face just minutes before, smiling.

“What’s your name, then?” you ask quietly, leaning in towards him, but it still takes him a moment to realize you’re talking to him. You see his eyes flick rapidly between your own. You hold up your hands in a placating gesture. “Just trying to make conversation,” you reassure him. No ulterior motives here.”

“Trying to make conversation with me?” he asks, pointing to himself with the hand holding the booze. You raise your hands in a shrug.

“Not gonna talk to the OPA in a cop bar, not gonna talk to cops in an OPA bar, but you seem like neutral territory and I’m feeling the need to inflict myself on somebody, you know?”

He frowns sharply before a small, sad smile replaces it.

“At least you’re using words and not fists, I guess,” he says.

“I’ve seen you get into a fight here once, I know I can take you if it comes to that.” You put your cheek on your fist and mirror him, and for long moments you look at each other and don’t move, and the voices around you slur together like the hiss of tinnitus and you think maybe you could like this sad, violent man.

“My name’s Miller,” he says finally, quietly, with his rough voice.

“Do you have a first name?”

“It’s a very well-guarded secret.”

“Well, _Miller_ , what do you do when you’re not being a cop?”

He stops at this, and seems to actually think about it. The gears turning in his brain were almost audible. It took so long for him to answer you thought maybe he had to regress all the way back to childhood to answer what you thought was a simple question.

“I’m always a cop,” he says finally, distantly. “I dont do anything else.” He drinks the rest of this bulb of whiskey but this time doesn’t ask for more. He gestures around with his free hand. “I do this, I guess. Maybe shouldn’t start thinkin’ about it like a hobby, though.” He looks at you sideways again and smirks, and you smile too, and this seems to catch him off guard. You drink the rest of your own gin and get another before settling back in. He doesn’t move from his slouch, doesn’t stop looking at you now.

You settle back down too, and against perhaps your better judgement you reach out, touch the little scar on his chin that you can see through the stubble. He doesn’t move away but the little not-quite frown returns, and you quickly withdraw.

“Did someone do that to you on the job?” you ask quietly. You can feel the sharp hair of his chin still on your fingertips.

He sighs, sips the whiskey. “Yeah, some punk trading drugs to dock workers. Caught up with him and he punched me, had a big old ring on too.” He raised his fist as if to illustrate, reaching forward in a slow-motion re-enactment of the event. “Forgotten arm,” he mumbles as his knuckles barely scrape your own chin, and the blood rushes in your ears.

“I’m sorry,” you say, trying to be sorry.

“All cops are bastards, doll,” he says tipping his glass to you. “All’s fair on Ceres Station.”

You don’t remember exactly what you talk about after that, more shitty cop stories, some where he’s the hero but a lot where he’s just as shitty as any of the OPA people on the other side of the room - the gin catches up with you quickly but you know he’s slowing down to match your pace. You tell him some about your work and he’s polite enough to ask about it, but mostly it devolves into laughing about idiots trying to outsmart people way above their league - cops and OPA both.

Eventually it gets late enough that people start leaving, filing out one by one or leaving in clumps of their own kind, and it’s just you and him and a few stragglers when the bartender shouts last call. His sharp voice shocks you and you flinch, turn towards the man who looks genuinely apologetic, feel a hand on your arm - Miller, brow creased and frowning. 

“You okay, kid?” he asks in his raspy voice. You nod, trying to still your heart. He looks you over once more, nods back, slides off of his stool. “I had a nice night,” he says with a sad little smile. “It’s been a while since I had a nice night.” He picks up his hat and settles it on his head, and that sadness you’ve seen in him before settles into the lines of his face.

You grab his elbow and he turns back to you, and you pull him close to you. He’s surprised, you can tell, but he doesn’t move away. At this distance he smells like cigarettes and booze.

You start, stop, start again. “You know, if you’re not doing anything else we could hang out some more. I’m not doing anything tomorrow.” You can’t make yourself look at his face but this means instead you’re looking down his open shirt and your drunk fingers want very desperately to slide in there.

He doesn’t answer for long enough you start letting go, before he slides his hand back onto your arm, staying you.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, and when you look up he shrugs with his free hand. “I ain’t got much else to do.” You don’t know if you should take this badly or not, but you’re also drunk enough that all you feel is his fingers and the warmth of him so close. Your eyes flick between his own, his mouth, his open shirt. You slide off your stool to join him, and he leads you in a weaving line down and down to his own apartment.

When he lets you into the small space, the first thing you notice is it’s virtually empty - the man seems to own nothing other than the bare minimum, empty shelves and empty cupboards. Empty bottles of beer and booze sat around conspicuously because of the absence of everything else.

The click of the door closing behind you draws your attention and as you turn back he moves forward, and you’re kissing before the blinds are even closed. His unshaved face is rough on your mouth but his lips are soft, the whiskey on his breath heady. Miller reaches out without looking and messes with the blinds until they close and the room grows dark again.

You both fumble to take off your clothes, not wanting to part, and you can feel him smiling as he kisses you and it makes the blood rush to your head - then he presses his bare, cold torso into yours, cold thighs into yours. Your hands feel thick and you think you can feel everything a hundred percent more, and his heavy hands sliding up your back feel as clumsy as yours sliding through his hair and reaching yourself up to his height. 

He presses into you more firmly to walk you backwards, and the room pitches some at the effort. Your calves hit the hard edge of his couch and you start to fall but he catches you - stronger than he looks - and lowers you down, lowering himself on top of you. Your hands run up his wide back and feel the muscle shifting as he moves, feel the roughness of his underwear press between your bare legs and you let out a moan before you can catch yourself. He slows for a moment and when you look for his face you can see the outline of the smirk, see the glint of dark eyes, before he starts pressing down harder, and harder, and you wrap your legs around his hips and press yourself into him in turn. He exhales sharply into your neck and he’s hard already and you try to keep yourself steady as you reach between the two of you and slide his underwear down and free his cock and help him slide into you. 

You gasp as he fucks you hard, clumsily, but intimately here in the dark, bodies almost flush with one another, him biting your neck softly, up and up, then your jaw, and then you can taste his booze and your booze together on your lips. You fumble around until you find his hand, lace your fingers with his, and pull your arm back and above your head - you want to be close, as close as you can, and you know it might just be the gin but you feel like you’re on fire everywhere he touches. When he runs his fingers through your hair and pulls back just a little, just enough to expose your pulsing throat, you feel him look at you more than see it, and before you’re ready you come, shaking and pulling your legs tighter around his middle, and he lays on you like a weight until you’re done, sliding slowly in and then out, all the way, and you grunt with surprise.

Neither of you speak but you find his eyes and can tell that sad miasma is back around him, and you reach up and cup his cheek, run a thumb across his lower lip. His tongue slides out and finds the tip, and you want to feel your fingers in his mouth but stop only because maybe that’s not a first-fuck thing - instead you push him upright, untangle your legs from his, pull both of you up off the couch. He’s still hard, and almost out of habit you reach out and take his cock and work it slowly, watching his eyes fall closed, watching him bite his lip. 

There’s only two other doors in this hole so it’s easy to find his bedroom - you slide your fingers under the waistband of his underwear and pull him forward, and he barely opens his eyes, lets himself be dragged. When you push him back down onto the bed he goes almost slack, except his cock, back in your hand, and the furrowed brow above pursed lips.

You straddle him, leaning only a little into the gin, and guide him inside you. His hands find your hips to steady your rhythm and you watch him, and he watches you fuck him through heavy lidded eyes. You bend forward and put a hand on either side of his chest to keep you steady and you close your eyes and let yourself ride him and let yourself gasp, high pitched. Occasionally he grunts, deep and rough, and it shoots through your cunt and you shake with need for it, for him. Then he is gripping your thighs almost painfully tights as his eyes fly open to look at you and he comes inside you, and the intensity of his gaze and the feel of his hands and his panting make you lose yourself again, and you collapse on top of him as the last of your orgasm shudders through you.

With some gentle extraction you lay down next to him on the small bed, no room to move apart, not that you wanted to move apart. He stays on his back, one hand on his stomach and the other arm under your pillow and your head. You roll into him, lean into the smell of him, post-sex and still boozy, and you rest your hand on his chest, and you feel his heart beat fast, then slow down as he drops off to sleep. You reach out and put your hand on his neck, feel the bone spurs at the base of his neck and can’t help but run your fingers over them, as gently as you can. You have them too, knew it was because of bad care and cheap drugs, and wondered what, exactly, that meant for Mister Miller as you drift off to sleep.

\- - - - -

When Miller wakes up he’s alone. This isn’t unexpected - he _expected_ her to leave right after the fucking, but she was kind enough to let him go to sleep first, at least. He tried to remember when the last time he had shared a bed with anyone was. His divorce was a handful of years ago at this point so… slightly before that.

It was nice, he remembered that now. It also made him feel hollowed out and cold. He lays in bed for a minute, contemplating the empty space beside him, deciding to tuck that away for later him to deal with, like he didn’t feel everything always no matter how hard he tried.

He slides on his underwear, digs a tanktop and shorts out from the pile of shit next to his bed, stretches so hard he pops in about six places and he starts seeing stars. Water, he needs water - step one. He could do step one, at least. 

He walks unsteadily to the kitchen, eyes closed against the faux morning light, scratching the deep itch on his chest. He coughed deep and phlegmy, and then heard the faint sounds of… cooking? Something sizzling, something scraping against one of the two burners on his compact stove. He opened his eyes and she was there, wearing _his_ shorts and his other ratty tanktop and making egg-substitute and humming. 

Miller stops and presses his hand hard to his chest to try to calm his stupid, too-fast heart, trying to ignore his feelings once again, though this one was more akin to being grateful - to affection - than being lonely, though he still hates it a little bit too.

She doesn’t turn, goes on shifting ingredients, until he coughs again and she turns slowly from the food. She‘s frowning in concentration until she sees him and then her face crinkles up into a smile and he can’t help but return it. She’s rumpled from sleep and still looks exhausted, actually, but she’s here still and she’s smiling at him and he thinks he might do anything for this girl he met just last night, for this kindness alone.

“I didn’t find much,” she says with a shrug. “The egg stuff and the milk stuff. You don’t have coffee stuff though which frankly is a crime this early in the morning.”

“I can get coffee,” Miller says before he can stop himself. He pauses, thinks about what he’s saying this time.

“What are you still doing here?”

“Cooking?” She hesitates, looks around. “Do you want me to leave?”

He turns to the side, looks back into the bedroom, hand still against his heart.

“No, you can stay,” he says eventually, “just been a while since anyone’s wanted to.”

She smiles and turns back to the food. “You’re too old to live like a bachelor.”

“Think again, kid, you’re never too old. It’s called bein’ an ascetic.” He takes a seat at his tiny little bachelor table, looking at his tiny little bachelor kitchenette. Thinks maybe she’s right, actually.

“I dont think that’s what that means.”

He shrugs, and digs out a couple plates for her to slide egg stuff onto, and they sit in silence and eat, and he doesn’t know whether to be uncomfortable about it or not. He thinks of all the things normal people talk about over breakfast but can barely remember what he and his ex talked about, let alone a new person, this late in the game. 

“We should do this again sometime,” she says, and it shocks him so much he stops with his forkful of egg stuff on the way to his mouth. He tries to look anywhere but at her. 

“Sure, kid,” he says eventually. “Sure thing.”

She smiles again, softly this time, and he grimaces and wonders if he deserves it.

“It’s Joe,” he says, swallowing hard. “My name’s Joe.”


End file.
